I had what I now know to be a panic attack when I was eight years old. We were holidaying in North Wales and were taking a picnic at the ruined Rhuddlan Castle, whose mighty mediaeval stone keep had seen many a year and much turmoil. Mother was pregnant and just wanted to sit, Dad sat beside her on the grass by the empty moat, and Veronica was in her trolley, which left room for me and my brother to race madly round the walls. I knew about castles, knights and men at arms, for I had seen pictures of them in books,and so I ran not just with my body, but with my imagination. Taking a cut through the ancient keep, in which I was the only living person. I was suddenly struck with terror. I imagined that I was being watched, that hundreds of eyes were staring down at me from the walls, I imagined men at arms gazing down from the ruined ramparts. For a moment I stood transfixed and then fled out to the safety of my parents.
I can still remember clearly the moment of terror fifty nine years ago, and can find a parallel in Seamus Heaney's poem, Death of a Naturalist when at six he realized the terror that lurks in nature. I attribute the panic attack to the fact that I was growing up and becoming aware of the vastness of time and of the eons that have gone before me, peopled by folk that I can never know. Being a small child on his own surrounded by massive, ancient walls caused a surge of fear generated by a sense of vulnerability.
Never since have I had such a panic attack in ruins. Some of them, like the Roman Forum or Pompeii are so busy that you don't have the solitude needed for imaginative engagement.But when you visit some ruins you have time to pause and reflect. I have on more than one occasion visited the ruined monastery on Llandwn Island off Anglesey, a tidal isle that can be accessed on foot. Standing in the ruined church which is now filled with nettles and looking up through the vanished roof to the sky above I cannot be anything else but sad for what has been lost, for how much that was good that disappeared at the Reformation.
The poet in me [we all have some poetry in us] allied with the gardener when I saw the nettles, for I know that they only grow in fertile soil. So maybe,I mused, the monastery is still fertile for us today, preserving some of the spirituality of the place for us to savour in our age for a brief moment, sparkles from the light of a receding past,a reminder that the modern age has its serious deficiencies.
Comments
Derdriu, you have hit on significant points, as you usually do, and you have done so quickly, especially as I was a bit slow to reply last night, as I was tired!
I suspect that Snell haunts as he died with sins on his conscience,hence unshriven. This opens up the issue of what we mean by heaven and hell.
You are rightly impressed by the courage of the priest who gave the last rites to William Wallace. But King Edward should have realized that to try to send someone to hell is to qualify for Hell yourself! Personally, I don't wish Hell on anyone, not my worst enemy, or even Hitler, though it is hard to think of anywhere else he could go.
frankbeswick, Thank you for the reference to Potsford Wood gibbet.
Internet sources gave me a clear idea of what happened before and after the 17th-century event, but not of why. Most sources indicated that the Snell remains were collected for burial within 50 years of his death. It makes me wonder why the place is so haunted by him since he was laid to rest. Would it be because he actually got buried but perhaps never went through confession, late rites and proper funeral in consecrated ground?
In another direction that is somewhat related, somewhat not, it always has impressed me that the priest dared to confess and give last rites to William Wallace even though King Edward I tried for that not to happen.
Derdriu, there is not sufficient evidence to say whether stone facilitates eerie experiences more easily than other substances do.
Yes, we have gallows trees standing in the isles, and some have spectral associations.But at times the spectral experiences outlive the tree or the gallows. Look up Potsford Wood gibbet.
frankbeswick, Thank you for the photos, practicalities and products.
In particular, I appreciate your including a British Heritage Activity Book; the series is something I've valued as educationally entertaining and entertainingly educational.
Do you think that stone facilitates eerier experiences than wood? Do the isles have still-standing trees that once served as hanging trees and have people talked about feeling, hearing or seeing anybody or anything unsettling from such past associations?
I saw the body shapes in Pompeii but to me thy aren't bodies just casts ; it's like looking at statues. Plus as a Catholic, I believe the body is just a casket and the spirit lives on more importantly.
Not every visitor to Pompeii gets to see the bodies, I did not, and as I visited the place in the August heat and was part of a bilingual party in which everything had to be said in English and French, the tour took too long and so I suffered in the brutal Italian heat until I could obtain mineral water, so the visit became onerous after a while. As I said, there was no time for quiet reflection.
We have no castles here, but many old forts that were constructed of brick and are in disrepair. Some built by Spanish, some by French, and each with a different appearance. Unfortunately, some forts I remember as a child are no longer available, for the danger of being struck by a falling brick is too great.
One place I would find unsettling is Pompeii, for seeing body forms where people died is at another level.
In America there is a fascination with cemeteries, the reason for which I cannot understand. In south Louisiana many have small, white structures built above ground because water is often just below the surface.